


Ex Umbra In Solem

by Gwyddelig



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Gap Filler, Ianto Jones: Empath, M/M, Romance, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-22
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyddelig/pseuds/Gwyddelig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto Jones had made himself a shadow, hidden in the background, unnoticed. How does a shadow cope with being brought into the light? (Officially on Hiatus, potentially abandoned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything Changes

**Author's Note:**

> Fore notes: This is a work I began a bit back and have been posting on FFnet. It is a writing experiment of sorts as well as a gap filler story. Feedback and constructive criticism are always welcome. Thanks for viewing.
> 
> Disclaimer: Torchwood belongs to the BBC and is the creation of the masterful Russell T. Davies. Recognisable characters and scenarios belong to the appropriate parties and are borrowed for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Spoilers: Torchwood series 1-3, Doctor Who 'Army of Ghosts', 'Doomsday', 'The Stolen Earth', and 'Journey's End' (potentially others)
> 
> Summary: Ianto Jones had made himself into a shadow, hidden in the background, unnoticed. How does a shadow cope with being brought into the light?
> 
> Pairings: Jack/Ianto (eventually), Ianto/Lisa (mentioned), Gwen/Rhys, etc (standard canon couplings)

**Ex Umbra In Solem**  (From the Shadow into the Light)  
by Gwyddelig

Chapter 1: Everything Changes

_"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."_  
\- French Proverb

He'd known. Of course he had. To her - to them all - he was background noise. The guy in the suit who brought them their coffees and cleared up their mess, silent save for the occasional sibilant quip. They paid him little mind, going about as if he were merely furniture, non-sentient and of no matter. It was almost funny how quick they were to dismiss him, how easy it had been for him to fade into the shadows.

He knew all of their little secrets. And they knew none of his.

For a secret organisation, one would think they'd be more careful, take nothing at face value. Instead they'd looked at his 'file' and accepted that as who he was, simple, innocuous. Just as he had intended them to. They were clueless.

Further proven by their complete and utter shock at Suzie's betrayal. Not a one of them had seen it coming, completely blindsided by something that should have been obvious. Her obsession with the glove had practically radiated off of her. He hadn't needed empathy to see just how deeply lost she'd become, how dangerous.

And now he stood, deep in the vaults, scratching out her death certificate in his neat scrawl, locking her in this tomb - property of Torchwood even in death.

"All done here?"

The suddenness of the words didn't startle him. He'd felt the man coming, heard his footsteps softly treading the flagstone and tile. "Almost," he responded, sliding the drawer shut, the clang of the locks resonating finality.

"Good," Jack sighed, looking grave and hurt, saddened by his failing, by his loss. "I should have paid better attention. I knew she was getting wrapped up in researching the glove, but I didn't see just how obsessed she'd become."

Obviously, Ianto thought a bit snidely.

"She did say the glove gets to you," the younger man replied, slipping his pen into his pocket. Ianto kept his own feelings on the subject carefully masked. He hadn't hated Suzie, but he hadn't particularly liked her either. The woman had a strangeness about her that was disconcerting, but that might have been the glove's work. She'd had her hands on it before even before Canary Wharf had destroyed his life. Perhaps before she'd been different, but that wasn't for him to know.

"Yes." The word hung in the air. There was no banter, no flirtation - the mood was wrong for it. "I've offered Gwen Cooper a job here," Jack commented, changing the subject with little finesse and Ianto could feel the further drooping, the weariness drawing to the forefront.

"She'll be a valuable resource," he returned, honestly not sure why the man dained to discuss his hiring practices with the 'butler'. "Her police training and people skills are likely to be quite beneficial."

Jack laughed then, mirth edging its way past the exhaustion to crinkle the corners of his eyes. "Ianto Jones, ever the pragmatist."

If he hadn't been facing the man, Ianto might have rolled his eyes. As it was, he merely stared on placidly. "If there's nothing else you need of me, sir?" he prevaricated, hoping to push the man into sending him on and being on his way himself. He needed to check in on Lisa before leaving and he couldn't very well do that with Jack wandering the tunnels.

"Go home, Ianto," the Captain sighed, though a small smile graced his lips. "I'll need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in the morning. We've a new recruit to draw up contracts for and God knows I hate paperwork."

"I'll set up the phone monitoring and be on my way then, sir," the Welshman said, inclining his head slightly as he made to leave the catacombs.

He set the program from his desk in the Archives before checking the CCTV to confirm that Jack had made it to his own office. That done, he made the quick trip down to the subbasement to look in on Lisa. She lay still, tubes running in and out, trailing over her half-converted body. The silver metal contrasted starkly with her rich, dark skin, gleaming in the half-light. No change, he assured himself, dropping a gentle kiss to her immobile lips before locking the room and heading up to the main floor.

"I'm off, sir," he called through the open office door as he passed.

"See you in the morning, Ianto," trailed after him as he made for the cogwheel door and up the rickety, aging stairs.

The night was cold, especially along the Quay, and Ianto found himself shivering despite his coat. The 10-minute walk to his flat was just enough to chill his bones and stiffen his muscles so that when he arrived at the step, he was more tired than he felt he should have been.

He entered his dark flat quietly, switching on the table lamp in the foyer and shucking off his jacket. Meticulously placing it on the 3rd hook from the door, he slipped of his shoes and set them next to the pair of trainers near the door. His keys went into the small dish on the breakfast bar before he put the kettle on. While it boiled he slipped into the bedroom and changed out of his suit, donning soft flannel pyjama bottoms and a worn cotton t-shirt (if the bottoms hung a little low on his hips, he was sure it was because of their age and wear). Carefully he hung the garments back in the closet and was back in the kitchen with time enough to set out a cup and drop in a teabag before the kettle started to whistle. Routine completed he settled himself at the small, second-hand table to ponder the day and plan for the next.

It'd be best to be careful, he decided. Now that Suzie had shown her colours - dark red blood and bits of white-ish bone across the Plass, washing away in the fountain tower to pool briefly in the Hub before disappearing entirely - the other's would be more vigilant, more aware. But it wouldn't last, soon enough they'd return to their former complacency and when they did…

Dr. Tanizaki had been exceptionally keen to make the trip, almost antsy in his excitement to test his talents and come in close contact with the Cyberman technology. Ianto could only hope that the man could help and that his exuberance over the advanced equipment wouldn't hinder Lisa's recovery. He wanted her whole and human again.

Tea finished, he switched off the light and lay down on the bed. He focused on willing himself to sleep, it wouldn't do to be too tired, wouldn't do to slip up now - not when he was so close. He briefly considered a sleeping pill, but decided he couldn't risk being locked in a nightmare when the stakes were so high.

Wishing his love a soft goodnight, he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.


	2. Day One

**Ex Umbra In Solem** (From the Shadow into the Light)  
by Gwyddelig

Chapter 2: Day One

 _"Beginnings are always messy."_  
\- John Galsworthy

He wasn't surprised when his quip about using his eyes was all but ignored, the team pausing long enough to hear the words before out the other ear they went. He  _was_ mildly surprised, however, that it had garnered any reaction at all. Usually they wouldn't even bat a lash when he slipped and opened his mouth to say more than 'coffee' or 'yes/no, sir', when he forgot himself and could almost believe he was part of the team. He sometimes wondered if they even knew his name. He was almost certain Owen didn't as the medic called him 'teaboy' if he called him anything at all.

Jack did, though, as he was quite often reminded. For some reason the man seemed to love saying it, as if the sound on his tongue was ambrosial. Ianto himself would be damned to admit that when the American said it, he could almost believe it was. Lust radiated off the Captain like heat from a star. Ianto was sure the man could find a Coke bottle arousing, given the right circumstances.

He blamed the current ones for his train of thought, glancing at the CCTV in time to catch Gwen and the possessed Carys crash together in a frenzied lip-lock. It was no wonder his head was buzzing. 'Sex gas' indeed. It certainly explained why, when Carys went tearing off through the Hub with the Hand-in-a-Jar, he slipped again.

"Need me to do any attacking, sir." He knew he'd smack himself for it later, but he couldn't help the words just then. Not when Jack (though obviously worried for the Hand, desperate to keep it safe) was standing there, half-in the small room that made up their Tourist Office front, exuding that smell - that terribly tantalising scent that made Ianto so hard he wanted to beg Jack to bend him over the counter and make him forget about Lisa, forget about Cybermen and Daleks and all those things that made him wake up screaming at night, forget everything but the ecstasy he knew Jack was capable of giving him.

The crash of the containment jar brought him back from the edge of that fantasy before he forgot himself fully and acted on it, shocking him back to reality as swiftly as a bucket of ice water. Shame, bitter and terrible, raged through him, souring his stomach as he realised just how lost he'd gotten in that smell, in those allegedly 51st century pheromones. Bile crept up in his throat, harsh and acidic, and it was all he could do to keep from bolting through the beaded curtain to heave his guts into the sink.

It was pitiful really, the sight of Jack on the floor, the creepy severed limb in his own goo-coated hands, twitching slightly with some echo of movement, a sick parody of a living appendage. At least the gall had settled; though, if the thing continued to twitch, Ianto felt he might be sick for an all together different reason.

He paid no mind to the two women running past them, out onto the Quay; almost snapping at Gwen when she opened her mouth about the hand and Carys upon her return. It was not his own irritation, he knew, it was Jacks - slipping through his barriers, wrapping itself about his own oscillating emotions, feeding them and feeding off them. Knowing himself, he' was certain that, despite Gwen Cooper's usefulness, he probably would be having to deal with his own irritation at the woman in the near future - good intentioned though she may be.

They'd left him alone rather quickly as things escalated, bolting out of the base with haste that would make the Hounds of Hell think twice about trying to keep up. He wouldn't be needed again, but it was best to use his time wisely - in the event they did return, demanding coffee or files or some other such nonsense that they expected to have magically appear before them.

Once they'd disappeared from the CCTV around the Hub, he made his way down, slipping through the internal monitoring via the unused and probably forgotten corridors that sprawled beneath the bay. Twisting and turning deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Victorian monstrosity, hidden away like the rest of his secrets, like he himself. The door to her prison was safely locked, bolted and he reasoned with himself that it was for her own protection - not to keep her in, but to keep them out.

The monitors showed no change, but he checked anyway, reassuring himself that the machines were doing their job, that the medications were keeping her as free of pain as they safely could without killing her. Some days he wondered if it would be better if she died than to stay as she was, trapped in this place, away from the sun and warmth of the world above, neither awaking nor sleeping, neither living nor dying. He wondered if it was selfish of him to want her to keep on living, to let her keep on suffering while he sought out a cure; but she'd insisted she it was alright, that none of it mattered so long as he was with her, that she held on for him, so that they could be together again. He didn't think he was worth her pain; but she swore he was, fervently, repeatedly, and he believed she meant it. For her sake, he would do everything in his power - to help her, to fix her. As long as she was happy, as long as she had hope, he would keep on.

It didn't stop the doubt from creeping in, the nagging worry in the back of his head, the sense of wrongness that niggled just out of reach of conscious thought. It itched and rankled, but he pushed it aside. Doubt there was, but stronger was his need for her, his desperation to save her. He needed her, didn't think he could go on living if he lost her. It was enough to distract him at times and he'd nearly be found out on a handful of occasions since stealing here way down there, since secreting her into the base.

"I'm sorry," he whispered in expiation, brushing fingers across skin that could no longer feel sensation. It was becoming so difficult, putting on the face they wanted to see, keeping things from falling apart - needing her, wanting  _him_. He wondered just how long he could keep it up. Every lapse, every falter drew eyes to him, attention that he couldn't risk having. Especially since Suzie, damn her and her murderous habits. It had been just days, but it felt like weeks and he hoped an opportunity presented itself before it was too late.

"Ianto?" the comm crackled in his ear, the Captain's smooth voice wrapping around the sounds like silk.

"I'm here, sir," he responded automatically, scurrying from the room with forced dignity. He quickly locked the room, shutting her away once more, before heading back up toward his desk in the Archives.

A gentle harrumph slipped over the line before Jack spoke again. "Would you mind making up a pot before you head out?" The pleading was there in his voice and Ianto imagined if the man were stood before him he'd have his hands pressed together in that silly little mockery of prayer.

He rolled his eyes, inordinately pleased to make the gesture and release from his rigid composure. "Of course, sir. Will that be all?"

"Yep," came the snap-to, rather cheerful reply. "Then get yourself out of here," came the expected order, it seemed the man was always telling him to leave. "You spend far too much time down in those dank tunnels. If I didn't know better, I'd think you lived here."

Panic swept through him like ice and fire. Jack couldn't know, it was just an off-handed comment. It had to be. That didn't stop his heart rate from elevating nor the blood from draining from his face nor the cold fear that coiled in his gut. "Yes, sir," he managed to reply, his voice surprisingly even despite the waves of nausea sweeping over him.

He paused as he ascended the stairs to the main floor, trembling a little and taking a moment to compose himself. He hoped his ears weren't burning as brightly as he believed them to be. An embarrassed flush would only draw further attention.

Making the coffee helped and he took refuge in the meditative task, willing the flush away as he brewed. Ready, he made for the office, setting the blue striped mug next to the blotter without flourish; the perfect butler, unobtrusive and efficient.

"Thanks, Ianto," the older man said with genuine appreciation, smiling that sweet smile - the one Ianto thought he should use more often, the one without any kind of leer or lechery, the one he thought was beautiful and heart-melting.

Mentally shaking the thought aside, he inclined his head demurely. "You're welcome, sir."

"Go home, Ianto," Jack shooed then. "I swear if I didn't tell you to get out of here, you'd never leave. Go home, relax, do something not Torchwood related."

"If you insist, sir," and he could tell the other man was trying very hard to scowl at him despite the smile, _mirth_ \- a fresh feeling after the heavy and pervasive sorrow of the last few days - flowing off him in rippling waves, easing the pain a little, letting it sink back. So if his "goodnight" was less than formal, perhaps a little too familiar, he put it down to Jack's emoting and left it at that.


	3. Ghost Machine

**Ex Umbra In Solem** (From the Shadow into the Light)  
by Gwyddelig

Chapter 3: Ghost Machine

_"Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment."_  
\- Gautama Buddha

There was so much in his head, crashing around, thoughts merging into one another then separating or forming new ones, chaos. It broke in tattered edges like the breath of the  _Brenin Llwyd_ , heralding bad things to come, foul things riding on the  _Gwynt Traed y Meirw_. He had to get himself in control, had to or else he'd next end up like Suzie: a corpse, another body to fill the catacombs of Torchwood's underbelly - and Lisa, his beautiful Lisa, would be lost, murdered, disposed of. He had to be in the here, now; not then, there.

He reined his mind in, tamping down on the pandemonium which wanted to break loose (now was not the time, still so much to do). He smiled, plastic and pleasant, practiced politeness perfected over years of shutting people out (shutting himself in?). He cleaned. He brewed. He fed. He met their every need before they themselves knew of its existence. He played the Alfred to Jack's Batman, ensuring that things ran smoothly, like a well oiled machine just chugging along without notice. He was the picture of cordiality, even tempered and unobtrusive.

Sometimes, he even let himself pretend to be a part of them, part of the team, throwing out bits of himself and seeing if they noticed - seeing if they cared (it would make this all so much easier if they didn't). It surprised him to find that it served to settle them to his presence even more, to let him further slip into the background (silence could be as telling as the loudest scream); and he played it to his advantage, delivering well-timed quips so jejune that they were passed over with little or no pause. He even continued with the little game Jack had started, his dryly delivered bon mot replies always garnering a smile (he secretly welcomed the harassment, though he refused to admit it even to himself) - and if Jack seemed more distracted (by Gwen) and less inclined to pay him mind, more's the better.

When they brought the Ghost Machine to the Hub, he was bothered, disturbed. And when Jack reached for the button, he thought he just heart might stop from fear alone. If the device picked up on strong emotions, it was decidedly possible that it might hone in on his - or Lisa's - and all his hard work would be for nothing. He was too close, too damned close to be found out now. Just one more week, days really, and Dr. Tanizaki would be there. He'd fix Lisa and it would all work out.

He barely heard the voices of Gwen and Tosh as he cried out, blood pounding in his ears - then Jack was stepping back, hands up in a warding gesture, an aggravated scowl on his too handsome face.

"As if," he bit out and Ianto couldn't quite figure why, as it was Gwen who was rushing up to him, the man had locked eyes onto him - the teaboy holding a tray of coffees, seemingly least likely to attack (as if he'd waste good coffee when Gwen could do the attacking for him). Why? he wondered, departing before attention could be returned to him, grateful that Gwen's loud mouth had diverted their focus back to work related things (hadn't she ever heard of an 'inside voice'?).

Of course it fell to him, at the end of it all, to secure the device and he had to toss back his glass of Scotch to steel his nerves against the grating sense of the thing. It wasn't overtly evil (not like the Glove had been - that creeping, sickly feeling that oozed from it like ill intent), more that it pulled at him in an odd way, distorting sense like it distorted perception - narrowing it, focusing it on an outside source, out and away from oneself. He felt better once it was locked away (boxed and seal, 'Not for Use') behind layers of thick doors.

It was later that evening when he'd come across the CCTV footage of Gwen's 'training session' on the firing range (a nightly scan, to make sure Lisa's room was still undetected). He stared at them - Jack's body pressed against her, hands on her hips, her arse pulled tightly against his crotch. He swallowed reflexively, green seething jealousy bubbling up in his gut, acrid bile burning his throat. No, he told himself, this is good. It's good. Jack's focus on Gwen was a good; she distracted him, kept his attention away. It was good. Somehow he had a hard time convincing himself of that even as the bitter gall turned to a hard lump of wretched remorse, sitting heavy in his gut like a loadstone pulling hard to meet the ground.

He turned it off without bothering to check the rest, sick with himself. He loved Lisa, but he was hard pressed to deny the desire coiling in his belly like liquid fire in attraction to Jack. It was inexcusable, abhorrent - these thoughts, these desires. He loved Lisa, her and her alone! His body betraying his heart.

But it didn't matter, because soon he would be gone, soon he and Lisa would be out of this dank sewer and living the life they were supposed to have - would have had, if Yvonne had had any sense not to mess with things she didn't understand. It was her fault, for helping the Cybermen cross the Void. If they'd never begun messing with the Ghosts, Canary Wharf would never have happened. He'd still be in London and Lisa would still be human, not some half-converted creatu-

He shut down that train of thought, chastising himself for even beginning it. Lisa was human, she was just damaged right now. Dr. Tanizaki would fix her, make her fully human again, take those parts away and bring back his Lisa, whole and beautiful as ever. He just had to make it a little longer. He'd be glad when it was all over.

The nausea clung to him as he shut down his station, flicking off the small desk lamp and donning his coat. He wouldn't go to her tonight - couldn't - not while he was in this state of turmoil. She'd know something was wrong, so perceptive, his Lisa. He couldn't bear the thought of adding to her pain by causing her to worry. He left the Hub quickly, not bothering to look in on Jack (he was probably still occupied anyway), intent on making in home as quickly as possible. The light as he stepped out onto the quay nearly blinded him, the sun up and shining cheerfully in clear disregard for the fact that it was Cardiff, Wales. He gave it a mock scowl, the expression pulling his face in a way that felt oddly contorted after the blank mannequin expression he bore day in and day out. "Have it your way," he sighed, letting the light play over his skin, warming him, reminding him that soon it would all be over.

_"You know why the sun shines, Ianto?"_  He could hear his sister whisper in his head, feel the phantom touch of her finger on his nose as she teased him, cuddling him in her arms - warm, protected.  _"It shines to remind us that the darkness comes to an end. So smile, you daft sod."_

And despite the gnawing in his belly that had nothing to do with hunger, he felt himself smile.

**Glossary** :  
 _Brenin Llwyd_  - "Grey King", a being believed to inhabit the mountains of Snowdonia. The 'breath' of the Brenin Llwyd is a cloud-mist that hangs about the mountains and when it tatters at its edges, looking as if to break up, it is said to be a bad thing.  
 _Gwynt Traed y Meirw_  - "The Wind at the Feet of the Dead", the North wind.


	4. Cyberwoman

**Ex Umbra In Solem** (From the Shadow into the Light)  
by Gwyddelig

Chapter 4: Cyberwoman

 _"Blue eyes say, Love me or I die. Black eyes say, Love me or I kill thee."_  
\- Spanish Proverb

He knelt next to the body on the floor, sobs choking him. He couldn't catch his breath, couldn't get air to his lungs around the squeezing of his chest. Lisa. Blood. Dead. Dead. Deaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead! Dead! Black edged his vision, dimming it, forcing it into a blurry focus, centred on her. His world, his meaning - gone, drained out like her lifeblood, pooling on the cold, rough floor. His knees were wet with it, the cooling fluid of life soaking into his trousers, his skin.

There was movement around him, snapping him back with shattering force. "Don't you touch her!" he hollered, voice horse with emotion, rough with tears and pain. He lashed out, pushing the person away, scrambling to cover her, protect her. Dead. Deaddeaddead! But he didn't care, clutching her to him, fingers slipping as he tried to cling to her, desperate not to let her go. A sensation like physically pain, skin deep, but it was gone, devoured by the all-consuming flood, before he could really notice it.

"Ianto, let her go." Calm, commanding. Jack, his mind supplied with disconnected recognition. Murderer, the venom hissed in his blood; but he couldn't grasp it, couldn't hold onto it. Like Lisa, her body slipping from his numbed grasp.

He felt himself slipping then, dull haze suffusing his being.

"Here, grab him," the words trickled to his ears amidst buzzing. Strong arms under his, carefully lifting. It clicked then, the pin prick, the haze. He would have laughed, had he the energy.

The sedative pulled him under, sending him into blissful black.

* * *

Opening his eyes, he decided after a quick peek, was a bad idea. The room spun and he found himself fighting off the urge to empty his stomach across the concrete. He concentrated on the irritating scratchiness of the fabric beneath his cheek: worn, synthetic, woven - the couch then, he surmised. Probably so they could keep an eye on him. It made perfect sense, and yet he was surprised to find himself laid out on the couch instead of tossed into a cell. It was no less than he deserved, after all.

"Awake yet?" The acerbic tones of Owen, just the thing he needed when he felt like he was going to spew. Now if he could only gauge the location the man's feet without opening his eyes, he was sure he'd feel much better. Ruining Owen's expensive trainers sounded like the perfect start to his day.

"You don't open those pretty blue eyes, I'll open them for you," the medic remarked stingingly, placing a sarcastic emphasis on the description of his eyes. - Oh yes, Owen obviously had ideas about what he wanted to do to said eyes and it probably involved plucking them out and sticking them in a jar, knowing the medic. Personally, he rather preferred to keep them in his head, thank you very much.

" _Dos i ffwcio dy hun_ ," he muttered groggily. After a long moment he prised his lids apart, not daring to move else the limited contents of his stomach actually decide to make good on his daydream of ruining Owen's shoes. Some part of his mind, the part that was always working, always thinking - and oh god, if he could only not think about that - figured the nausea was probably in part due to the sedative. He pushed it away lest other memories -  _Lisa, oh god, Lisa_ \- surface.

"Are you sick?" Owen demanded bitingly, ignoring the Welsh explicative. He remembered the doctor once commenting that people who spoke Welsh must drool a lot to wrap their mouths around the sounds involved. Ianto liked to think the grouchy prat was just jealous since the only other language he knew was Latin - and that was limited to medical jargon. "Hey, I'm talking to you. Get your bloody traitor arse up so I can do my job and get you out of my sight!"

"What's it matter?" The prospect of vomiting on Owen's shoes was looking all the more appealing. He was sure if he moved his head just so…

The rancid bile hit the ground, only managing to splatter the tiniest bit on his target. So much for that idea…

"Christ, Ianto," Owen cried, jumping back. And there was surprisingly less acid in the medic's voice than he would have expected given the circumstances. More surprising still was the fact that the man had used his name. Who'd have thought he knew it? "Jack, get down here and give me a hand. Teaboy just cacked all over my new Pumas."

Shortly he was manhandled down into the bay. During the short journey, he succeeded in not only ruining Owen's shoes but dressing his own already wrecked trousers in the fetid stuff. Somehow Jack had gotten away unscathed and Ianto didn't have it in him at that moment to care.

"I'm gonna run some scans," the Londoner muttered, doctor-mode kicking in despite his hostility towards his patient. "My luck he's sensitive to the sedative I gave him. Bloody well can't see why, but that's my bet."

"Just get him fixed up," came the mildly grumpy reply as Jack beat a path for his office.

* * *

He drifted while Owen ran his scans, poked and prodded and generally made a nuisance of himself until declaring the sedative the culprit - "Course it was. Stupid teaboy, bet you can't hold your liquor either." - before suggesting he eat a sandwich - "Your blood pressure's low, s'well as your blood sugar - when's the last time you ate anything? I can see your ribs, mate. Skin and bones, you are. Going for that Kate Moss look, are we?" - and running him out of the bay - "Now go see Jack and leave me the hell alone."

Slowly, he drug himself across the main part of the Hub, images assaulting him as he went. The mess hadn't been touched, blood spilled across boxes and grating, dripping hauntingly into the pool at the base of the watertower. 

' _Lisa, my god, Lisa_ ' rang in his head, a litany trembling off the sharp edges of recent memory. The pain of it, of her loss, was as good as physical. His limbs ached and started to shake, the queasiness returning with a vengeance.

 _Her blood, all over me, all over the floor. Lisa, my Lisa, oh god._ He had no room just then to spare for the other two victims of his folly, no room yet to really register more than loss, deep, soul shattering loss; but he would, it was already there, the guilt, the awareness, just at the back of his head - it would be there to greet him when the loss of Lisa was no longer fresh, ready to rip him anew with remorse for his actions.

When he looked up, feet having managed the trek his brain could not make consciously, it was to be greeted with the face of her murderer -  _"You're the biggest monster of all."_ \- staring at him with blank resignation.

"It's cruel to farm it out," he found himself saying, without conscious thought to the words slipping from his lips.  _Pleasejustdoitalready_.

"Farm what out?" Jack's tone was so sincerely uncomprehending that he couldn't help but laugh. Only, once he'd started he couldn't stop and when the laughter became choking sobs he found himself back in in that room - that horrible awful room.  _Oh god, Lisa, what have I done? I only wanted to save you and instead I brought you to your death!_

"Get him home, Jack," Owen grumbled, appearing beside him. "Dump him in a damned tub or something, but this has got to stop."

The words filtered in, but Ianto wasn't listening, wrapped up in his mind, in his despair. He ignored them both without effort, Owen's voice a humdrum background to the buzzing in his skull. He hated them, hated them both - and yet at the same time, he didn't, he couldn't. He vaguely heard them - "Shock" - and felt the hands under his arms - "Suicide risk?" - carefully lifting him up, half carrying him as he stumbled along.

What came after was a blur, sounds and light, all ignored, unprocessed. He vaguely registered motion (how long, he wasn't certain - time was irrelevant to him), stairs, the jiggle of keys amidst muttered curses, and the feel of his body dropping, cushioned and horizontal.

He woke alone, still in the previous day's clothing and gritty with -  _Don't think about it!_  A shower, he needed a shower, wash it all away, lock it all away.  _Don't think about it_ , he repeated, his mantra.  _Just don't think about it._

* * *

When he showed up for work, suit pressed and impeccable as usual, he was sure they were going to have kittens. He ignored them as they had ignored him, were likely to still ignore him - once the fuss had died down. Worn and tired and defeated, he went about his job of clearing up their mess -  _"No questions asked and that's how you like it."_ \- and making the coffee. When he forgot and went down to check on Lisa, Jack was there to pick him up once more.

"You know that if there had been anyway to save her, I would have tried, right?"

He was numb. Sitting in Jack's office, listening to the man he should hate try to console him. He could feel the sincerity of the words, but it didn't reach him, didn't warm him or anger him. Nothing, he felt nothing.

It was a bemusement of sorts, he thought.

Gwen had stared at him with her soulful eyes, pitying him like the fool he was - poor Ianto, so in love, so desperate he couldn't see past the lies to see what was so glaringly obvious. Owen had stormed out, unable to handle being confronted by events similar to his own past pain and hating the boy who reminded him of his own loss - probably to drown himself in alcohol and warm willing bodies. And Tosh, sweet Tosh - she had given him a nervous smile and a cup of coffee ( _"No one brings you coffee…"_ ) as she made an effort to right what she felt were wrongs against him.

Jack…

He lifted his gaze from his lap. "Whenever you're ready, sir," he said without intonation, flat, hollow like himself.

He felt a flare of - what? compassion? - before the older man shook his head. "I'm not going to execute you, Ianto," Jack said, his visage grave with regret, maybe, that Ianto thought that was the case. "And I'm not going to Retcon you."

An expression - pained, shocked, angry maybe - must have flittered across his face because the Captain was before him, hands cupping his cold cheeks in fire, the touch connecting and - He looked up into blue eyes. _Sincerity. Sympathy. Pitty._   _Acceptance._ _Possessiveness._

"I'm giving you some time off," the words spilled across him and he felt himself cracking under the barrage of emotion. "What you did was wrong, but your motives were well intentioned." Like gentling a skittish colt, or chiding a small child.

He opened his mouth, pulling away from the hands, 'why' falling thickly from his lips as tears spilled from his eyes. So many meanings, so many questions in such a short word - his eyes begging. He wanted to hate this man, wanted it so bad. It would be so much easier - but he couldn't, not when Jack looked at him like _that_.

"I thought she was still Lisa," he choked out, the dam breaking at last. "I thought it was still her. But it wasn't… it wasn't ever her, was it?"

"I'm sorry, Ianto," the sincerity was shattering.

He felt sick, his face burning with shame as his chaotic thoughts crashed about his brain: his own delusional acceptance; how easily fooled he'd been; how that thing had used him, used her memories, his love for her; his betrayal of this man he'd come to respect, this team he wanted to be a part of; his own utter blindness to what was in front of him the entire time. "I…"

A rustling from the desk - when had Jack stepped away from him? - and a file folder was levelled in front of his eyes. "You and I, Ianto Jones, are going to spend your suspension working on trust," the man said coolly, though his eyes were soft and encouraging. "You are part of this team, whether you like it or not. You owe me your life. I own you now."

He stared at the file, innocent manilla and crisp type, 'JONES, IANTO' printed in bold type across the tab.

"This is your personnel file," and his heart sped up a beat. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"

_'You hid **yourself**  from us!'_

No more secrets, no more lies.

He swallowed, reaching out to the calm Jack was exuding, trying to grasp the tiniest bit for himself. "It-it's doctored," he forced out, honesty stuttering as habit of hiding told him to keep shut up.

"How much of it?" When he took too long to reply, Jack sighed. "I'm not going to punish you for telling the truth."

If only it were that easy, he thought bitterly. "I left only what I thought would get me in here," he confessed. "What would give me credence enough to hire, but be innocuous, standard fair."

It was Jack's turn to silence, considering his next words carefully. Ianto felt him fighting the betrayal he still felt, fighting the urge to rip into this boy who dared to use him. His tone, however, was not terse as he spoke. "I need a copy of your real file," and there was a tiredness in him that matched the tiredness Ianto himself felt. "I need to know you, Ianto Jones - if that's even your real name."

"Ifanwy," he found himself saying, compelled for some reason to share with Jack something even Lisa, his Lisa, hadn't even been privy to. "Ifanwy Caerwyn Jones. Ianto is a… diminutive. But it's what I prefer." His mother had called him Ianto since he could remember -  _'Ianto, gariad, fy machgen bach.'_ \- when she was lucid, when she was his mother. "My… the full file is hidden in a sub-directory of the secure archives. In section Plural Z Alpha, artifact ICJ-05B42x. It's encrypted with an asymmetric stream cipher, which can be found in Delta File under Contamination Protocol X-beta-T1, artifact ICJ-05B42z. It should still be on the London database…"

He couldn't bring himself to delete the file, the digital record of achievements he'd been proud of once, and he'd known it would be too much of a risk to house it on his own computer, even renamed. None of them had thought to check for him under a different name, under an obscure artifact file; and anyway, he'd always gone by Ianto, even his school records listed him as Ianto Jones. Even if they'd located his birth certificate, which he'd faked a copy of as well - at least on the Torchwood database - it wouldn't have matched up to the encrypted file without the cipher.

To his surprise, Jack smiled - it was a worn smile, but there was mirth in it as well. "You are too clever by half, Ianto Jones. I'm looking forward to getting to know you," a hint of flirtation colouring the comment, reassurance flowing from him. "Go home, grieve, get yourself together. Owen will be by to check on you later this afternoon."

As he stood to leave, Jack continued. "Oh and be ready at six, wear something casual."

"Sir?"

"We're going to grab dinner, have a pint, and get to know one another." His tone was light but brooked no argument. "Alright?"

Ianto nodded, his face placid. "Yes, sir." He had a feeling this would set a precedence for how his suspension would go - and truth be told, he wasn't sure he minded in the least. It would at least distract him from the cold ball of grief and guilt that coiled in his stomach and the lingering whispered litany.

 **Glossary** :  
 _Dos i ffwcio dy hun_  - "Go fuck yourself"  
Ifanwy - 'fine, rare' (While 'Ianto' is not a direct diminutive of Ifanwy, it's a diminutive of Ifan, so… there in lies my logic.)  
Caerwyn - 'white fortress'  
 _gariad_  - mutation of 'cariad' (mutation is caused by the word in front of it, in this case Ianto, ending in the vowel o), "sweetheart"  
 _fy machge_ _n bach_  - "my little boy", mutation of 'bachgen' [boy] (mutation in this case caused by the vowel y)


	5. Suspension

**Note:** 'Karma Police' belongs to Radiohead, 'Getting Better' belongs to whoever owns the Beatles rights now; not mine, no infringement intended.

**Ex Umbra In Solem** (From the Shadow into the Light)  
by Gwyddelig

Chapter 5: Suspension

_"All pain is a punishment, and every punishment is inflicted for love as much as for justice."_  
\- Joseph De Maistre

There had been dinner, small talk, playing nice - always playing nice - fake plastic smiles like fake plastic trees, decorative and lyrical, but neither real.

He thought he might be drunk, a little or a lot he wasn't yet certain. Either way it probably wasn't the best of ideas. Worse still to be drunk of any sort with Thom Yorke crooning softly over the piano keys and guitar strings, words of some crapulous hallucination delicately quavering -  _"This is what you get, this is what you get, this is what you get when you mess with us…"_  - dancing through his brain like a morbid echo, a pistol report. Maudlin misery accompanied by someone else's drunken broodings.

" _I've given all I can, it's not enough…_   _I've given all I can, but we're still on the payroll_ …"

Whiskey warmth buzzed along his nerves, soothing and disturbing in turn; and in that moment he'd have given anything for a different kind of buzz - the hiccuping sway of alcohol not numbing enough of him, not reaching that core pit of misery.  _"For a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself…"_  He wished he could.

The song spiralled on to its end, harsh and sharp warping the dwindling chords and withering words. It cut through the fog only enough to allow wavering thoughts, distilled and fragmented, muddled but with definitive shape. Of their own, they drifted back through the day.

* * *

_He had been wearing a T-shirt and jeans when Owen arrived, grimacing like a man walking into his own execution. In the hours after his dismissal he'd sat in his shower, torn between scrubbing his skin raw and watching as the pink trickles of her blood flow down the drain. He was sure Owen could see the pinkness on him - raw skin touched with flaking fragments of blood he couldn't bear to wash away._

_The moment passed and a half-amused snort ripped itself from the doctor's throat as he paused to read the verbiage splashed across the shirtfront, white letters proudly proclaiming_ "I'm a Natural 20."*

_"You're a twat is what you are, mate," Owen replied with grudging amusement, taking another moment to truly look at Ianto himself. "But you look like shit. So I suppose that makes you more of an arsehole."_

_Comfortable snark, holding onto unsteady ground with familiar slander. Inside, Owen was seething, torn between his dislike for the man he considered a traitor and his own empathy for Ianto's plight - the younger man felt the war for dominance like a turbulent tide. It was understandable, warranted even; but he didn't tell the Londoner so, instead stepping back to allow Owen - as per orders - to enter his flat._

_"Alright, teaboy, off with it," the medic ordered almost sinisterly, glee brimming in his dark brown eyes - apparently morbid joy had joined the party. "All of it. Full starkers, mate. Ain't hiding nothing from Dr. Harper today."_

_The Welshman glared as Owen snapped on his gloves, practically radiating sick excitement at having been granted leave to torment his favourite victim. The embarrassment was coiled around tendrils of anger and hatred, seething in his belly, churning and nauseating - but it felt better than the sick knot of loss and guilt. Aware of his flush but defiant, Ianto dropped trow and stripped off the tacky shirt - feeding off his dislike for the ornery doctor with every irritation-stiffened jerk._

_Once Owen was satisfied that the teaboy would indeed live - "Bruised and banged up a bit, but you'll survive." - he ordered Ianto back into his clothes and demanded a coffee._

_"You got off better than you deserve," the grouchy Englishman said conversationally, if snidely, as he accepted his cup of steaming brew. "Really, you should be dead - and that's not 'cause Jack shoulda put a bullet in your brain. Far as I could tell you were dead. I mean that thing-"_

_"Her name was Lisa."_

_"_ Thing _threw you 'cross the room like you were nothing. And all you got out of it is a few scratches and bruises?" Owen scoffed distastefully. "Either you're just damned lucky or - I dunno what."_

_"Are you finished?" Ianto said, his question indicating far more than the empty coffee cup sitting_ beside _the coaster in petty defiance._

_Scowling, Owen stood. "Yeah, yeah…"_

* * *

Owen had proceeded to snark about Ianto 'topping' himself, Jack's insistence on 'keeping the teaboy around', and told him not to do anything he himself wouldn't do before Ianto managed to slam the door in the Londoner's face with a satisfying thud.

It was almost funny but Ianto was a bit grateful for the distraction Owen presented - then and now. "Not telling him that, though. His head's already too big for his body," he muttered to himself, sipping the fire water with a drunken giggle that turned into a rather uproarious fit before subsiding into hiccoughing spurts as the hilarity of the situation hit him. He wanted to hate Owen, hate Jack, but instead he was grateful to them, indebted even.

He lent back against the cushions with a groan. "How did my life get so messed up?"

* * *

_When Jack showed up, coattails swirling in the wake of his long-legged strides, Ianto wondered why he hadn't just 'topped himself' after all._

_"T-shirt and jeans, almost as good as the suits," Jack mused aloud, sweeping in and striking an assessing pose, eyes gleaming with appreciation as they often did when his gaze turned toward Ianto. "Grab your coat," he ordered smartly. "Doctor Harper has prescribed 'fresh air and relaxation'-" he paused as Ianto glowered at him skeptically. "Alright, he said 'take him out and get him drunk'… Salt's has good cawl and better beer. Just what the doctor ordered! Get a move on!"_

_They'd eaten, they'd drunk - well, Ianto had drunk, Jack had watched lasciviously while telling wild tales about aliens and his sexual exploits there with. He'd kept the tone light, never allowing conversation - what little there was - to so much as venture near recent events. And, if it weren't for the fact that he felt like he'd had a hole ripped out of him and left to seep and fester, Ianto might say he had a good time._

_Even worse was Jack seemed to be projecting care and a certain amount of affection that balmed Ianto's soul as surely as numbing salve on a wound. As the night wore on, he felt less and less of the soul deep pain. Certainly the alcohol was in part responsible, but he couldn't deny Jack's presence soothed him in ways he wasn't yet ready to accept - not when he had lost so much, not when he had so much to make up for._

_And more to the point, his drink fuzzy mind insisted, Jack should be angry with him. He should be seething with the betrayal, but instead he was sitting here, sharing a plate of chips and babbling about his 'sexploits' with six-legged pseudo-aquatic aliens and projecting an emotion Ianto couldn't fathom he merited at the moment._

* * *

Ianto chuckled self-depreciatingly, head lolling against the back of the couch. Jack had comforted him right up until the moment he'd seen him back through his door with a 'get it out of your system now' and a stern 'tomorrow, we have to talk' before vanishing as if he'd never been there at all.

But the emotions lingered, strange creatures crawling through his shattered soul. They didn't abate his guilt or his pain, not yet; but they did offer some measure of reassurance that this wasn't the end of the world. He had a lot to atone for, a lot to come to terms with, but things would get better.

The glass slipped through his limp fingers, sleep claiming his drunken mind, as The Beatles drifted softly from the speakers in tune with his final thoughts…

_"It couldn't get no worse…"_


	6. Suspension II

**Note:**   _Postcards from Italy_ belongs to Beirut.

**Ex Umbra In Solem** (From the Shadows into the Light)  
by Gwyddelig

Chapter 6: Suspension II

_"Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death."  
_ \- Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel

The morning was icy cold with early frost, bright freezing sunlight nothing against the rawness of Welsh autumn. Consciousness swam up to meet it, unwelcome but inevitable. He wondered, briefly and with a fuzziness brought of too much drink and too little of it water, if the chill would numb the pain still pulsing through him in time to the beating of his heart - a pain which had nothing to do with the massive headache that throbbed behind the too thin lids of his eyes.

A noise drew him further awake, buzzing softly but insistently through the haze. It coalesced, focused, and ordered itself into rifts and chords, words coming last through the fog.

_"The times we had, oh when the wind would blow with rain and snow, were not all bad. We put out feet just where they had, had to go, never to go…"_  Stereo's still on, he realised. It carried on playing, unheeded - like life does after loss.  _"The shattered soul, following close but nearly twice as slow. In my good times, there were always golden rocks to throw… at those who… those who admit defeat too late. Those were our times. Those were our times…"_

A knock interrupted the instrumental solo, startling the young woebegone man into an abrupt jerk… and off the couch whereupon he discovered the empty glass and whiskey soaked rug. Briefly, and ridiculously, he considered attempting to sop the alcohol up and wring it back into the glass - mustn't waste it - but shook the thought aside as asinine and too far gone for sobriety.

The repeated, and increasingly forceful, knocking - accompanied by a burst of Jack-tinted angry worry - returned his focus and, in a valiant effort to stave off further mind-shattering connections of fist on wood, he wobbled to the door. As he neared, the older man's voice joined the cacophony bent on shattering his skull.

He sourly wished that the promised 'talk' could have waited until, say, never - or at least until he wasn't hungover - but what he wanted and what he ever got were never one and the same. And it was more than obvious that, were Ianto to attempt to ignore the summons, Jack would end up breaking the door down. Something the Welshman would prefer to avoid.

Making it to there by some miraculous feat, Ianto swung it open, leveling what he hoped was a withering gaze on the (dashing) man in the (ever-present) military coat.

"Jack," he said without inflection, stepping aside to allow his boss - was he still? - entrance.

The older man heaved a sigh followed seamlessly by a scowl and swept into the flat carrying with him the humid cold of outside. Ianto felt it as it swirled about him, pondering the way it flowed and joined with the dry chill of the rooms within. It was a sensation wholly unto itself, not burned away by the still simmering  _angry-worry-turned-relief_  radiating from the American accented Captain.

There had been anger of his own the previous day, but Ianto couldn't find it now. Aside from the constant sick throb of his head which roiled his stomach with churning acidity, he felt numb. Emotionally numb. It wasn't a hollow feeling, nor a numbness derived of shock. It was more a lack of any feeling, an acceptance of pain so all encompassing that one no longer felt it. Wholly different from that which he'd felt before. He wrapped himself in it, holding tight to the blessed relief of non-feeling. It was safer that way.

Ianto must have zoned out because Jack was before him, a raised hand cupping the feverishly burning curve of his cheek. _Feeling_  sharpened, found the cracks in his shield. Ocean blue eyes burned into paler ones in what Ianto thought must have been what they meant by 'soul-penetrating stare'.

A memory, another moment, a similar feeling - though this one was wrapped in cotton-wool, muted and vague. Remembered sensation, fingers on his cheek… lips -  _not hers_  - against his own. There was a strangeness accompanying the moment, a feeling of warmth drawing him out of darkness, seeping into the depths of him, imbuing him with something indefinable. The memory sharpened then and returned to normal clarity -  _blue eyes, so intent, so focused, focused on him… as if he were the whole world_.

"Ianto?"

The younger man blinked again, finally surfacing from his own thoughts into reality. Jack was so close, closer still than Ianto remembered -  _why is he so close?_  - and so warm - _radiating: warmth, comfort, life, something more_. Ianto almost lent in, almost let himself give into the desire that - despite wretched guilt and despair, despite the growing pain in his head, despite the inevitable collapse of his walls under the pressure - curled in his loins at the thought of Jack Harkness - had done since long before, before Lisa, before Canary Wharf, before Cardiff and Torchwood Three… before  _Lisa_  and the monster and the betrayal.

Ianto remembered himself, though, and pulled away, bolstered his failing shields as best he could. He didn't deserve Jack's kindness, his forgiveness, his comfort. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

In that moment he realised his anger had truly left him - guilt, remorse, and shame holding its place. And while he still hurt, still missed Lisa fiercely, he was coming to grips with the necessity. She hadn't been Lisa, not then, perhaps not since the moment the Conversion Unit first sliced into her skin. She'd been a monster bent on world domination and the destruction of the human race.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled thickly. Despair washing over him anew as the gravity of what could have happened - what he could have caused - struck him. What warmth he'd garnered from Jack's touch left him, taking with it his breath as his headache surged with renewed force.

Not just what he'd nearly caused, but what he had caused.  _Three bodies. Blood on age worn stone. His fault._

Ianto felt his shields shatter with almost physical force. His head swam, the blood draining away as panic rose.

"Sit down, before you fall down," Jack commanded, steering Ianto towards the couch.  _Worry-fear-bitter-anger._

Hands on his shoulders, connection. His walls collapsed in a sickening lurch as undiluted  _Feeling_  crashing through to beat upon his psyche like breakers upon the shore.

"Stop it!" The Welshman cried out, voice a shrill, barely audible croak. Struggling to free himself from the Captain's grasp, he  _pushed_  hard against the onslaught.

The sudden  _silence_  was deafening.

Ianto gasped softly as the crushing weight of  _connection_  lifted. It took him a moment to realise that Jack had stepped back and was staring at him with something akin to shock written on his chiseled face - and a moment longer still to realise he couldn't  _Feel_  anything from the older man. Nothing at all.

The lack of sensation was disconcerting. He'd always felt  _something_. Even with his shields at full strength, he was  _aware_  of those around him - could read their moods without effort. Never this, never a void of feeling had he encountered.

"Thank you," Ianto breathed out in relief, ignoring how off kilter the sudden dearth of emotion surrounding the other man made him.

There was silence for a short eternity, Jack's eyes boring into Ianto as if dissecting him. When the Captain finally spoke it wasn't in the ice cold tone the younger man had expected, but rather a warm one filled with a humored kindness. "You've been holding out on me, Ianto Jones."

Colour bloomed across Ianto's cheeks, staining them bright against the pallor that still graced his skin. "Sorry," he whispered, ducking his head. What must Jack think of him? The secrets, the lies -  _You hid_ _ **yourself**_ _from us!_  - would he ever get away from them? Did he even know how anymore?

Jack sighed, a thread of sorrow seeping through before he clamped down on it. "I think it's time we had that talk.


	7. Suspension III

Ex Umbra In Solem (From the Shadow into the Light)

by Gwyddelig

 

Chapter 7: Suspension III

 

_"Before the effect one believes in different causes than one does after the effect."_

\- Friedrich Nietzsche

 

There was more to him than met the eye. Not particularly surprising; after all, he did work for Torchwood (and would for the rest of his expectedly short life). What was surprising was that no one had ever noticed, had never caught on. He'd slipped by, hidden behind suits and sirs and a semblance of subservience so uncannily rendered that they didn't once think to look past it, didn't bother to look deeper into the shadows to see what they held.

 

Now they saw him. Now someone was looking deeper.

 

Hawk-like blue eyes slid over him with a mixed heat, slow burning anger dulled by exhausted understanding dancing in their depths. There was a promise there: he would be watched.

 

It was strange, to find himself sitting in his living room, sipping coffee with Jack Harkness as if it were an everyday occurrence. Strange, really, for anyone to be there, but more so that the person was Jack.

 

And stranger still was _feeling_ of being alone while so very obviously not.

 

_Silence_ buzzed like tinnitus in his head, an overflowing emptiness that ate at him queerly. He'd never encountered such absence of _feeling_ before, even the ground beneath his feet echoed of the ages; but Jack - Jack, whom he could see and touch and smell, who was generally bursting with _life_ and _feeling_ \- was not _there_.

 

Ianto shuddered, breaking the stillness which had enveloped them. "Could you not… shield so tightly?" he asked tentatively, wincing at the sound of his rough voice in the crisp silence. "It's… creepy, seeing you sitting there and not _feeling_ you at all."

 

The cascade of emotions before had been overwhelming, but the lack there of was unbearable. 

 

Jack paused a moment before - in eerie synchronicity - he lowered his shields a fraction and opened his mouth to speak. The dual sensory stimulation after the void was almost surreal: softly (ever so softly) _frustrated-amusement_ brushed against his mind as Jack's voice drifted to his ears.

 

"This explains a lot," the Captain sighed, running a hand through his stylishly mussed hair (hair that Ianto had dreamed of running his own fingers through, secret wishing, in the dark, in the loneliness of nights spent at _her_ side, wrapped in _her_ pain). "No wonder you make such a consummate butler. Should have known you were a mind reader," he joked with a shake of his head.

 

Ianto ducked his own, cheeks colouring hotly - the flippant response to his most closely held secret like a slap in the face. "Not a mind reader, sir," he denied, retreating behind politesse to master his discomfiture. "Telepathy is not a skill I have ever had nor wish to have."

 

At his confession, _understanding_ blossomed across his senses and spread across Jack's face like the melting of icicles in the spring. There was a delicacy to it that was curious, almost gentle -- as if he'd been handed a precious thing and grokked it in fullness.

 

"Did she know?" the older man asked softly and with a shrewdness few realised he possessed.

 

"Yes," Ianto whispered, refraining from biting out that he'd intended to ask her to marry him, of course she knew. Lisa had been the only one he'd willingly shared his gift (curse) with. Sweet, wonderful, accepting Lisa. Lisa who had no psi rating of her own, who was blessedly normal, who treated him as if he were normal, too.

 

_Sympathy_ touched him as gentle as a lover's caress and Ianto pushed his meagre shields against it to block it out. He didn't want Jack's pity, still wanted to hate the man, to want to watch him suffer and die… but he was quickly losing that desire, watching it wash away under the scouring rush of comprehension: she'd known about him, known he could _feel_ her - and that _thing_ (Owen was right, and how pathetic was that) used that knowledge against him.

 

"You only saw what it wanted you to see," Jack asserted, his voice soft, making Ianto wonder if the man wasn't gifted as well. "Only felt what it wanted you to _feel_."

 

Ianto shrugged off the hand that fell on his shoulder, glancing up in surprise to see Jack standing over him - what was it with that man and suddenly appearing in Ianto's space?

 

"From the first moment the implant bored into her head the programming was there, unfinished, but the information, the imperative was in place: upgrade humanity, by whatever means possible," crystal-blue eyes met blue-grey. "You were those means. It manipulated you, convinced you that it was still Lisa to convince you to aid it."

 

"Don't you think I know that?!" Ianto bit out testily (he knows, of course he knows), scrubbing at his face with his hands - as if he could wash it all away, as if it _could_ be washed away. "I can see it - now that she's no longer in my head, now that I no longer _feel_ her. She _knew_ me and because of that _it_ knew me, knew how to get to me, knew it could convince me to do anything - _anything_ , Jack - to save her: no matter the cost to myself or anyone else." He took a shaky breath, fisting his hands on his knees. "I never meant to hurt anyone. I just wanted Lisa back."

 

Jack stood silent, no cliched adages about intentions and roads, no empty platitudes, no renewed fury or condemnation. There were no bursts of _feeling_ , of _emotion_ , but neither was there the same disconcerting lack there of as before.

 

"And then - I want so badly to hate you for taking her from me," Ianto continued when it was evident Jack was waiting for him to go on. "But I can't - because you didn't. You didn't because she was already gone. My Lisa died at Canary Wharf. And I know that. Rationally I know that, but I can't promise you I won't be petty or petulant and I can't promise you that I'll be over it all any time soon. Because not only do I want to hate you, but I owe you my life - and I'm not sure yet if I can forgive you for sparing it. Do you have any idea what that feels like, Jack? To have all that going on in your head? To be so conflicted?"

 

His mind was clearer than it had been in months, all the little bits falling into place as he pressed on. And it made it all that much worse.

 

"I committed treason, placed not only you all but the entire world at stake, and it was all for naught. I have to live with that - because of you," pained eyes pinned the older man beneath their gaze, a keen despair churning in the stormy depths.

 

"Are you finished?" The slice of Jack's voice held no hint of condemnation, but was tinged through with mild exasperation.

 

Ianto shrugged, feeling stiff and old and sick with himself. He supposed he _was_ done… for now.

 

"Let me tell you a story, then," the Captain said, dropping down to the couch and pushing Ianto over to make room. "There was once a man from the future who'd lost 2 years of his memory, for what reason he didn't know. So desperate was this man to recover those memories, to know why he'd had them taken away in the first place, that he'd do anything, would go to any lengths, to get them back…"


	8. Hiatus note

I know there are/were some people reading this.

First, I want to thank everyone who has read and supported me. And I wanted to explain the long (and longer still) hiatus on this story.

After I began this work, I went through a really awful time where my boyfriend dumped me and two days later I was laid off from my job. It was really stressful and I had my hands full moving back to my home state, back in with my parents, and trying to find a new job. I thought that when I finally got a job that I'd be able to write again. Instead I had little inspiration (despite getting my mother into Doctor Who and Torchwood while living with them) and my job got extremely busy with lots of overtime (some 80hr weeks) as we launched a new plant and product. Then I moved back out of my parents house and spent a lot of time with that. Finally when I felt like writing again, it wasn't this and it wasn't for Torchwood.

That being said, I don't know when or if I'll come back to this work. I was stuck on it. I have several versions of the next chapter written in bits and pieces, but nothing has become solid for me. I began to see so many writing flaws in the show and characters that I lost a lot of the love I had for it.

I'm sorry to those of you who have read and enjoyed what I've written of this, those who encouraged me to write more. If I ever come back to it, it will definitely be posted here. But until then...

I'm writing in another fandom. If you like Glee and Klaine, be sure to check it out when I get it posted. Until then, thank you all.

Much love,  
Amy (Gwyddelig)


End file.
